


cigarettes and cilantro

by chameleonchanging



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23517328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging
Summary: Wolffe knows that smoking is bad for his health. He just doesn’t see a reason to care. It’s not like he’s going to be alive long enough for it to matter.(There's probably a message in there about his perspective on life in general, but perspectives change with the times and new people, and maybe Plo is worth changing his mind for.)An expansion of the scene from Ch 9, [ lit ].
Relationships: Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe
Comments: 5
Kudos: 67





	cigarettes and cilantro

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [i take from you everything you will allow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13776939) by [chameleonchanging](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging). 



1\. 

Jedi die as easily as anyone else. 

The thought echoes in Wolffe’s mind. Jedi are not infallible. Shoot one, and he will fall over dead just like a trooper. There were so many bodies. He’d heard Generals Windu and Yoda speaking. One hundred eighty dead on the sands - and if they died like men, what else had he been taught that was a lie?

He throws his bucket onto his bunk. It rolls to a stop on top of his pillow, wobbling like a grave marker. He snarls and turns away from the macabre scene. 

His hands won’t stop shaking. They’re going to give him a Jedi. The vode have been called to action, and they’re going to give him a fragile, mortal Jedi who is not at all an invincible god, and he is going to watch his Jedi die on some battlefield because they die, that’s what they do, and Wolffe is only a man. He’s only a man, and his shaking mortal hands _won’t stop shaking, damn the little gods._

He paces laps around the room. He wants to run, but outside the rest of his brothers are celebrating their first action in ten long waterlogged years, and he doesn’t want to spoil their mood, even if they are all deluded and he’s the only one who sees things as they really are. The restless energy crawls under his skin. He needs something, anything to make it stop. 

Bacara’s got that ARC vod who brings contraband in from off-world training exercises. The damn things smell like shit, but he swears they’re good for his nerves. It takes a few minutes to pick open Bacara’s footlocker and a few seconds to fish out the little paper box of cigarettes. The first breath burns, but he keeps at it and soon enough the tremors stop. 

It’s not quite enough to get rid of his sense of impending doom, but he thinks that nothing can do that anymore. They’re all living on borrowed time. There’s a blaster shot out there with his name on it, and it’s just a matter of when it finds him. 

2\. 

There’s 576 troopers under his command, and 10 of them are still alive because their general is a reckless maniac. Plo Koon was supposed to be a nice, sensible High Councilor, not a walking mir’shupurla or’dinii like the 501st got, or a paklalatla diplomat like the 212th’s. 

Plo Koon is somehow _even worse_ , because he goes about with his bad ideas and his silver tongue _cheerfully_. As if life is a game of cards in which he is the dealer rigging the results, and he won’t stop smiling about it. All that osik about Jedi serenity and wisdom was exactly that; Wolffe has yet to talk to a single vod whose jetti is as advertised. 

That alone would be enough to drive Wolffe to drink, except - 

Well, the whole jetti thing aside, he’s practically the picture of mandokar. He’s stubborn and an unholy terror on the battlefield, and so very pleased to be alive. If Jango could see him - well, he’d probably try to kill him, but if Jango heard his description, he’d approve wholeheartedly. And to say nothing of his loyalty; if any CC had allowed such a maneuver and risked their priority asset for troopers who _really should have known better,_ there would be hell to pay. But the man took one look at the situation and went off to save his men simply because they were alive and needed the help 

The part of Wolffe that is predisposed to falling for people with mandokar is already bracing for impact. The part of him responsible for protecting his charge is getting ready to pickle his own liver. Since there’s not a drop of alcohol in sight, both parts are going to have to settle for chain-smoking. 

He’s got his own cigs now. Still crappy whatever’s-cheapest-and-available, but they get the job done. His standards, though low, do exist; he isn’t interested in cutting his already short lifespan materially shorter with death sticks. Bacara is a more understanding vod than, say, Fox, and didn’t kick up much of a fuss once his shit was replaced; now they swap complaints about their latest smokes. This one tastes even more like tar than usual and burns too quick.

He discards the remains of the cig and fishes out the next. A trooper - one of the lucky ones now singing the General’s praises - walks by.

“You okay, sir?” he asks.

“Just fine,” Wolffe grumbles, thumbing the wheel on his lighter for a spark. The shiny pauses.

“He’s really something, isn’t he?” he says. “The General. They said the Jedi were good, but I don’t think I really believed it. But he came back for us.”

“He did,” says Wolffe. “Don’t make him do it again,” he says, and takes a long drag. 

3\. 

His General uses Force lightning, and he uses it to light cigarettes. If that isn’t a frivolous use of the Force, Wolffe doesn’t know what is. He should probably be more concerned than he is, but the calming effect of the tobacco has already settled in. 

He keeps going back to the moment Plo stepped in close, like a challenge, like an invitation, and the urge to get him up against the wall and make him show something other than his cool composure. There must be something under his facade of unshakable calm. He doesn’t have hair to pull, but his fussy, excessively draped robes would provide as good a handhold as anything. He’d resist, of course; the fight would be part of the fun, but they’ve already established that Wolffe is the better between them at hand-to-hand. Wolffe would win in the end.

They’d start with their usual exchange, short, sharp jabs to test one another’s guard, and then longer flurries as they warmed up. Wolffe would allow Plo to press forward, would draw him in slowly, gradually, until he was in throwing range. Plo would notice and fall back, and their dance would continue. And then Plo would tire, as he did without the Force, and he would slow, and maybe the first few times he lingered in range too long Wolffe would be lenient and allow him to escape, sliding just out of reach. But at the edge of his endurance, Wolffe would catch him and haul him down to the ground, hold him wrists to the dirt, pinned by Wolffe’s weight. And he’d lean in, their breaths mixing, and -

Ah, fuck. The cigarette has burned almost all the way down in the time that he’s been dreaming. He takes a last drag and shakes himself loose of the fantasy. It’s never going to happen anyway. 

4\. 

He’s sitting outside watching the stars and the arm of the galaxy in the night sky. There’s nothing left to do for the night. Everything’s tucked in and the captains can take care of whatever petty issues might arise. He’s got himself an honest-to-gods night off, and he knows exactly what he’s going to do with it. 

Plo settles beside him, his robes brushing quietly against the grass, and obligingly provides a spark when Wolffe holds out a cig. The smoke curls unpleasantly in the air and Plo leans away, nose wrinkling behind his mask. It’s not especially poisonous to him; it just gets caught in the rebreather and takes forever to cycle out. Still he comes to join Wolffe when he has nothing to do except burn a pack. 

“The benefits outweigh the drawbacks,” he says when Wolffe asks. “I’d accept your company however it is offered.” He lies stretched out on the ground, head so close to Wolffe’s hip, one clawed hand resting at the hollow where his ribs end, the other absently spinning a flower that smells like cold. 

“You could ask me to stop,” says Wolffe. It’s just a pastime; he doesn’t get cravings. His hands don’t shake for lack of nicotine. But - why not indulge a little when tomorrow and its consequences may never come? Will likely never come, even, the way the war is going. 

Plo hums instead of giving an answer. “I think, when we return to the ship, I should like to plant a garden.”

“Oh?” There’s not very much room that hasn’t already been claimed. A corner in the bay area that used to be for shuttles. Maybe he could clear out a spot by the engines. Plants liked heat, right? 

Plo hums again. “I have not tasted _kand_ in many years. It grows poorly away from Dorin.”

Wolffe resists the urge to comment. Dorin doesn’t share any of its creations well, present company included. In fact, Wolffe is convinced present company might have a few more working brain cells had he not convinced the Sages to convince General Windu to bring him to Coruscant. But Plo continues as though he can’t feel the sarcasm coming off Wolffe in waves. 

“It’s a shrub, you see. Maintaining the necessary environment through the first nonproductive seasons makes it an unattractive option for commercial off-world growers. Only a few attempts have been made, even by the Agri-Corp.”

“Seems like you might be better off trying something else,” says Wolffe. “Seems like a lot of work for something that you might never see.”

“Perhaps,” says Plo, and then he takes off on another tangent. 

5.

He’s thinking about tomorrow and all the days that come after, and he’s thinking about what being happy feels like, and mostly he’s thinking about Plo, because he can have Plo if he wants and he knows it, and he’ll take Plo even if he might lose him later, and the losing will hurt more than anything else ever could, but the not having is even worse. And each moment of having makes the possible Plo-less future even more terrifying, but also moves the future where he gets to keep Plo closer into reach, and that’s worth it, isn’t it? To have and to hold, and to keep reaching for the future that he wants. 

He’s thinking and Plo is coming to him, and he’s got a cigarette between his fingers, the last of the box. He bends it in half and bins it unlit. 

“Not to your taste?” Plo asks, falling into step behind him.

“Nah,” says Wolffe. “Think I’ve found something better.”

**Author's Note:**

> mir’shupurla or’dinii: brain-damaged moron
> 
> paklalatla: adj, silver-tongued
> 
> mandokar: the epitome of Mando virtue - a blend of aggression, tenacity, loyalty and a lust for life
> 
> kand: a fruit native to Dorin


End file.
